On Desmond’s departure, Dulcie left the room, and ran swiftly to her
own chamber. Her hurried ring at the bell was answered by her maid,
Rosie.
‘Mr. Desmond has left the Castle,’ said Lady Dulcie. ‘He has had a
misunderstanding with his lordship. Follow him, and tell him not to
leave the village till he sees me. Quick!’
‘Sure, there’s no hurry,’ said Rosie coolly.
‘But there is!’ cried Dulcie. ‘The poor boy has quarrelled with Lord
Kilpatrick, and vows that he will never come back.’
‘He’ll not lave the place without sayin’ farewell to the boys at Widdy
Daly’s,’ said Rosie. ‘There’s a grand dance there to-night, and the
whole counthryside will be there. I’ll just go to the shebeen, and tell
the widdy and the boys to kape on the watch for ‘m, and lave word that I
have a message for him from your ladyship.’
Rosie’s instinct had not deceived her, for that night Desmond was found
sitting in the kitchen of the rude hostelry kept by the Widow Daly,
listening to the strains of Patsey Doolan’s fiddle, and sombrely
watching the dance of boys and colleens, in which, for the first time
during their long experience of him, he had declined to take part. Rosie
delivered her message. Desmond heard it with a half-averted face, which
did not hide from the girl’s keen eyes a flush of pleasure on his cheek.
He pressed her hand gratefully, but shook his head with a sad smile.
‘’Tis like her, Rosie--’tis like her. But that’s all over now. What
can she have to say to a poor devil like me? She’s up there with the
reigning government of angels, and I’m down here with the opposition.
Well, never mind! The world’s wide, and there’s room in it somewhere for
us all. Don’t stand staring at me there, Rosie, as if I was a show in a
fair. There’s Larry dying to shake the rheumatism out of his legs. Play
up, Patsey, you rogue, and put the music into their heels!’
‘Ye’ll dance yourself, Mr. Desmond?’ said Rosie. ‘I’d be proud to stand
out on the floor wid ye.’
‘And, sure,’ said Larry, ‘I wouldn’t be jealous if ye did!’
‘No, no,’ said Desmond. ‘Go and enjoy yourselves, and leave me to
myself. Play up, play up!’ he shouted wildly, ‘and the devil take the
hindmost!’
Rosie and Larry left him with pitying glances. The dance proceeded, the
Squireen sitting apart and looking on with haggard eyes at the mirth he
had so often shared.
A sudden cessation of the music and the measured beat of feet upon the
earthen floor made him look round. Lady Dulcie stood just within the
door.
‘Lady Dulcie!’ Desmond cried in astonishment, and rose and went towards
her. ‘What has brought you here?’
‘I’ve come to speak to you,’ she said.
‘Desmond, I _must_ speak to you.’
‘But,’ replied the boy, ‘this is no place for you.’
‘It’s the place where _you_ are,’ said the girl, with a tender look
shining in her eyes, ‘and that’s enough for me.’
Larry, standing arrested with his arm about Rosie’s waist, caught the
words.
‘D’ye hear that?’ he said to his partner. ‘Clare out, boys,’ cried the
widow. ‘There’s the rale stuff in the next room and in a moment, as if
by magic, the whole company melted away,--only Larry and Rosie lingering
at the door.
Widow Daly wiped the seat of a stool for her guest, and set it for her.
‘Sit ye down, my lady. Ye’re kindly welcome.’
Dulcie sat, looking up in Desmond’s face.
‘She’s the light of his eyes,’ whispered Rosie to her sweetheart. ‘See
how she looks at him.’
‘Ah!’ said Larry, ‘when will ye be afther lookin’ at _me_ like that?’
‘When your desarts are ayqual to your impudence!
She curtsied, and drew Larry from the room after the others. The Widow
Daly followed, dropping an ecstatic curtsey before she disappeared.
There was a long pause. Desmond sat looking sadly at the fire.
‘Desmond!’
‘Yes, Lady Dulcie.’
‘Dulcie to you, now and always,’ she said, taking his hand.
‘Don’t, don’t!’ said the lad. ‘I can’t bear it. I’d rather you let me
drift away from you like a leaf on the running water. I can bear all the
rest, but not your pity.’
‘It’s not pity that brings me here,’ said the warm-hearted girl, with
all her heart in her face. ‘It’s something more. I’ve come to ask your
forgiveness.’
‘My forgiveness!’ cried Desmond. ‘For what?’
‘For all my foolish ways--my thoughtless words. I ought to have known
better. But we were both so young. Well, I was a child this morning, but
seeing your trouble, I feel to-night like an old, old woman.’
‘Ah! You’re still what you always were, Dulcie, sweet and beautiful.
’Twas on a sunny summer’s day God made ye, and ’Twas the brightest
bit of work He ever did!’
‘You’re not going away, Desmond?’ she besought him.
‘I must,’ he answered.
‘I came to ask you for your father’s sake, for mine, to stay a little
while. You will, Desmond? For my sake!’
‘They’re words to conjure with, Dulcie,’ said Desmond. ‘But sure I
can’t. D’ye know what they’ll all be calling me? D’ye know what name
they’ll soon be giving me? How can I stay and look you in the face?’
‘Oh, Desmond,’ she pleaded, ‘your father----’
‘Don’t spake of him!’ cried Desmond.
‘He loves you, Desmond. He’d give his right hand to put things right. If
you will remain he will acknowledge you as his son--make you his heir.’
Desmond shook his head.
‘He can’t give me the one thing I want,’ said Desmond proudly and sadly.
‘He can’t take the blot off my name, the stain off my mother’s. He can’t
turn back the years and bring her from the grave.’
‘He can make amends,’ said Dulcie. ‘He will.’
‘It’s too late for that, too,’ answered Desmond. ‘Ah, spare me, Dulcie!
Don’t speak of it! Don’t remind me of my disgrace!’
‘Your disgrace?’ repeated Dulcie. ‘Where is the disgrace to you? Where
there is no sin there can be no shame; and you are innocent. Desmond,
there are others who care for you. There’s one,’ she added softly, ‘who
would give all the world to see you happy. Don’t make her miserable by
going away.’
‘You mean that?’ cried the boy. ‘No? Oh, Dulcie, don’t be too good to
me! Don’t let me think you care for me!’
‘Why not, when I do care for you?’ returned the girl. ‘And I do, I
do!’ She took his hand and rose from her seat. ‘I think you’re very
ungrateful.’
‘Ungrateful! To _you!_’
‘Yes. You think me a child still, a doll, with no heart, or head, or
will of my own. Ah! you don’t know me. If you were to say, now, “Dulcie,
I want you,” I’d follow you to the end of the world.’
‘Dulcie!’ He stretched his arms towards her, but fell back and let them
drop at his sides again. ‘I daren’t! I mustn’t! There’s a great black
river running between you and me.’
Dulcie laughed with the old dashing spirit, so alien to his own.
‘Then show your pluck. Strip off your coat, plunge in, and swim across
the river! I’ll help you up the bank when you reach the other side.’
‘Oh, Dulcie! my darling!’ Desmond caught her in his arms with a sudden
gust of passion, and strained her to his breast.
‘Dulce, dulce domum!’ she said with another laugh, though her own eyes
were brimming. ‘You may _kiss_ me if you like,’ she added with ineffable
drollness. Choking with tears, he pressed his lips to her face. ‘That’s
a dreadfully damp kiss. Sure, you’ve swallowed the river. No, you shan’t
go. I’ve got you, and I mean to keep you.’
‘You--you love me, Dulcie?’ said Desmond, breathless with wonder and
delight.
‘A wee little bit,’ said Dulcie; ‘just the least little bit in the
world. Now, just sit down like a good sensible boy and listen to me. No
more nonsense, if you please, about “shame” and “disgrace.” Our parents
don’t consult us as to the how and the where of our being born, and I
don’t see why we should trouble our heads about _them!_ A boy’s a boy,
and a girl’s a girl, and this boy and girl quite understand each other.
Don’t we?’ she asked, nestling up to him. ‘I never knew you to be so
backward before, Desmond! That river has washed all the old impudence
out of you.’
Her raillery could not altogether conquer Desmond’s gloom.
‘It can’t be, Dulcie. You’re only opening the door to a fool’s paradise
for me. I’ve lived in one long enough. ’Tis time I came out and looked
at the world as it is. It can never be. It’s madness to think of it.
Even if it were different, even if the trouble had never fallen on me,
I could never have hoped to win you. You’re a lady. I’m only the
Squireen.’ ‘You’ve grown mighty humble all of a sudden,’ said Dulcie.
‘You weren’t like this only this afternoon. After I’d waded with you
across the pool, you had the impudence to kiss my shoes.’
‘Sure I did,’ replied Desmond. ‘And I’m ready now to kiss your feet.’
‘That’s better,’ said Dulcie, nestling nearer yet. ‘That’s more like the
old Desmond. But a boy of taste would look a little higher. The mouth’s
prettier, and more “convanient,” as you’d call it. Ah!’ she continued,
with a sudden gush of tenderness, ‘don’t think me too bold! don’t think
me an outrageous little flirt! It wasn’t till I felt your trouble that I
knew my own heart, and learned that I loved you so much.’ She broke into
a sudden sob. ‘Tell me you’re not miserable any more!’
‘Miserable!’ cried Desmond, almost sobbing too; ‘I’m the most miserable
and the happiest man in Ireland. But, oh, Dulcie, darling, I’ve
sworn----’
‘But you mustn’t!’ said Dulcie, laying her fingers on his lips. ‘My
sweetheart mustn’t swear.’
‘I mean, Dulcie, that while this shadow is over me I can never hold my
head up again. I must leave this place. I’ve neither land nor title,
father nor mother----’
‘I don’t want your land or your title,’ interrupted Dulcie, ‘nor your
father and mother. I want _you_, and I’ve got you, and I shall keep you.
Try to get away if you dare! You can’t!’
A sound behind them made them both start, and, turning quickly, Desmond
beheld Peebles standing in the doorway. He turned away to brush the
tears from his eyes, but Dulcie hailed the intruder with delight.
‘Come in, Mr. Peebles,’ she cried, ‘and talk to this stubborn boy. He
won’t listen to me a bit.’
‘Is that so?’ said Peebles dryly, scratching at the scrap of gray
whisker which decorated his cheek. ‘I thought jest noo he seemed very
attentive to your discourse! Desmond, laddie,’ he continued, ‘my lord
has sent me after you. Noo, noo, ye’ll just hear me deliver my message.
He’s oot of his mind, almost, clean daft, and neither pancreatic
emulsion nor leever pills will hae much power to help him through in
this trouble, I’m thinking.’
‘Tell Lord Kilpatrick from me,’ said Desmond, when he could trust his
voice, ‘that I’ve nothing more to say to him.’
‘Hoot, lad!’ said Peebles. ‘Blood’s thicker than water. Ye can’t shake
off the ties of relationship in that fashion, and cast awa’ your father
like an old glove. For, after all, ye ken, he _is_ your father.’
‘No!’ said Desmond. ‘He’s no father of mine.’
‘Then he himself is sairly mista’en,’ quoth the old servitor. ‘He’s been
leevin’ for years under that impression!’
‘The man who broke my mother’s heart is neither kith nor kin to me!
Dulcie, good-bye! God bless you for all your goodness. You must try to
forget me.’
‘Oh, Desmond!’ cried the girl, ‘you can’t leave us; you can’t, dear.
Stay! Stay for my sake, I implore you!’
‘To be pointed at by everyone as the wretched thing I am. To know that
my mother’s name is a byword, and I myself am an outcast. You don’t know
what it is you ask me. ’Tis more than I can do.’
‘For my sake, Desmond!’
‘I can’t,’ cried the poor, proud boy; ‘I can’t, even for your sake.’
‘And where are ye going?’ asked Peebles. ‘Eh, Desmond, lad, what will ye
do?’
‘Do! Hide myself at any rate from those that have known me. The world’s
wide, old friend; don’t fear for me!’
And he made a movement to the door.
‘Stop!’ cried Peebles. ‘Since ye _will_ gang, listen to a word I hae to
say to you. Never think shame o’ the mother that bore ye, Desmond. _I_
kenned her, lad; I kenned her weel. She was a brave woman, as true and
honest as she was loving, and ’twas for _your_ sake that she took the
weary road o’ death.’
Desmond broke into sobs again, and the old man, seeing him thus
softened, went on:
‘There’s jest one thing ye’ll promise me, lad. Before ye gang awa’, see
me once more, and maybe I can help ye yet.’
‘I’ll promise you that,’ said Desmond, ‘if you’ll give me a promise in
return. You’ll tell me all about my mother?’
‘Ay, lad, I’ll tell ye all I ken. There’s no word o’ shame for _her_ in
all the story, whatever shame there may be for others.’
‘All I think of now,’ continued Desmond, ‘is the thought of the grief I
brought her.’
‘Ne’er believe it, lad,’ cried the old man; ‘ne’er believe it. Ye
brought her comfort and hope.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘Many’s the time I’ve
grat o’er your cradle, and noo, old fool that I am, I’m greeting again.
Bide a bit, lad; God may help us yet! There, there!’ he continued, as
the impulsive young fellow threw his arms about him, ‘ye’ll not be for
hugging old Peebles. Tak’ the little lass in your arms, and gie _her_
one more kiss for luck!’
‘Desmond!’ cried Dulcie, stretching her arms to him.
‘My conscience!’ said Peebles, as the lovers embraced, ‘if I’d your
youth, and siccan a mouth to kiss, I wadna care if the Deil himsel’ was
my progenitor!’
‘Good-bye, my darling!’ sobbed Desmond. ‘Good-bye, and God Almighty
bless ye! I must go. Good-bye, good-bye!’ He tore himself from her arms,
and ran out of the house. Dulcie sank back upon a bench, and her tears
ran unrestrainedly.
‘Tak’ heart, Lady Dulcie, tak’ heart,’ said the good old man, patting
her shoulder with one hand, as he wiped his own eyes with the other.
‘It’s a sair trouble, but we’ll maybe reconcile them yet.’
‘Oh, Mr. Peebles!’ sobbed the girl. ‘I love him!’
‘Any fool could see that,’ said the old man, with a chuckle which was
half a sob. ‘I love him, too, the rascal! Ye must hasten home, Lady
Dulcie. My lord needs watching, and ’tis weel ye should be with him,
for the boy’s sake.’
Dulcie dried her tears, and called Rosie, who answered the summons at
once.
‘You’ll take care of him?’ she said to Peebles. ‘You’ll see that he
comes to no harm?’
‘Trust me for that,’ said Peebles. ‘There, there, my bonny doo, tak’
comfort. He’ll be yours yet.’
‘Oh, how good you are!’ cried Dulcie. She threw her arms about his
neck, and kissed him on either cheek with right goodwill. ‘That’s for
Desmond’s sake. Mind, I trust in _you_.’
Left alone, Peebles stood for some moments in a cataleptic condition,
till he recovered his senses, and refreshed his brain with a liberal
pinch of snuff from his waistcoat pocket.
‘Peebles, ye old villain!’ he said to himself, ‘what’s gone wi’ your
morality, lettin’ the lassies kiss you at your age! Aweel! a kiss like
that from a pure lass is better than a bad man’s blessing. Never fear,
Lady Dulcie, nae mischief shall befall Desmond Macartney if I can save
him.’